


Drabbles and Ficlets

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Series: OnTheWayto4K Celebration [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boyfriend Dean, Camping, Captured, Crossdressing, Dad!Dean, Depressed Dean Winchester, Depression, Drabbles, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Maternal Fluff, Mom!Reader, Not Beta Read, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Plus-Sized Reader, Reader-Insert, References to Depression, Sex Toys, Sexual Tension, Sharpies, Smut, Unicorns, drugs or curses, injured, sooky Dean, the great tumblr purge of 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 18:46:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 14,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16838299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: These were written in response to prompts, and tagged #onthewayto4k.





	1. "Safety first?" What are you? FIVE?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> deanscarlett asked:
> 
> Ali!!! Congrats on the milestone :) soo, for the thinguie... Imma go with “Safety first. What are you? FIVE?” for Dean and Reader :D I LOVE YOU, ALI!!!
> 
> Oh Scar, you know I love you too. Okay, here goes…

“Safety first. What are you? FIVE?”

“What ‘safety’,” Dean scoffs down at you. “It’s perfectly safe!”

“It’s a wheely chair!” You point at the ground and hope he doesn’t laugh at your Voice of Authority. “Get the hell down!”

“No!” Dean twists himself aggressively, swivelling the chair under him so he can lean over you from above. “The ladder is ages away. I don’t even know where it is exactly. I can not fall off a fucking chair. And I’m just fine.” He swivels back to face the bookcase and reaches up to the highest shelf muttering, “Quit with mothering me.”

You watch his fingers reach all the way up there. The big silver drum/bucket/barrel thing is almost in his reach. Neither of you are sure it’s what you need - it just _looks_ right for the job. “Sam’ll be back in 40 you know.” He’s ignoring you. “It’s not actually that urgent.” He starts to tiptoe, the chair wobbling below him, and you stand behind him just in case. “You won’t frikken complain while I’m mothering your ass out of a stupid injury.”

“Juuuuustabout got it.” You can practically hear him tonguing his lip as he finally teases the rim into the grasp of one hand, but as he tries to reach the other end he finds it’s heavier than he expected. His weight is slid forwards beneath him as he pulls, and you grab his hips to get him straight, but then he jerks the barrel off the bookcase and it’s whole mass is over his head, then in front- _behinnnd!_ In front! “Woah- wo- shit!” He over corrects and hits the shelves and- _**BONNNNNG!**_ Dean gongs himself clean in the forehead, bending backward, and you jump back to at least break the fall somehow.

Which you do, admirably, and as you both go down you’re winded by his skull landing smack on your belly, the barrel landing square on his. The chair is free to roll back to the table and mind it’s own damn business like before…

Two silent seconds pass before he pushes it off himself and _breeeeeeathes in!_ You force your shoulders up, shoving his head forward to get it off your guts, and then the two of you try rolling over and getting up off each other while heaving in air. Octopuses have more grace.

“Are you okay?!” wheezes Dean.

You don’t answer, not straight away, but give up trying to do more than lay on your side and not die.

He’s got a hand either side of your waist, waiting for a sign you’re not really hurt. Or mad. “Are you okay? I’m sorry-”

“You’re an idiot,” you gasp, holding up a finger. “You owe me.”

“I do. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Breakfast in bed for a week.”

Well, that’s a better offer than you expected. You lean back on both elbows to get a better look at him while he waits to see what you’ll say. Yeah, he’s sorry. You roll your eyes and try not to think about how quick he was to suggest such a grand gesture.

“That thing was wheely heavy!” he grins. _Right?_

You scowl. “ _Two_ weeks.”

_Aw._

[Originally posted by iwriteaboutdean](https://tmblr.co/ZA0lrf2LfgRZN)


	2. “It’s six in the morning you’re not having vodka”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:
> 
> “It’s six in the morning you’re not having vodka” said by Dean (like pls as if he’s never had liquor with breakfast)
> 
> TW for plus-sized hunter reader. It got schmoopy.

You scowled at Dean through your eyelids. “I’ll have you know, I’m _about_ to go to bed. So it’s not _my_ six in the morning. Bossy britches. It’s my 1am.” You opened your eyes and adjusted to face the fridge, where Dean had since walked. “And 1am, sir, is Vodka Time.”

“If it’s vodka time, then it ain’t about to be your bedtime at all.” Dean plonked a glass of juice in front of you and put his hands on his hips.

“Oooh! Mixer!” You grabbed the glass and smiled your eyes at Dean as you gulped a bit to make room, then set to unscrewing the vodka bottle.

“No. No-no,” he said, pulling it from your sloppy grasp. “No more. Drink the juice and go to bed.”

“That will just make me sick. I’ll puke. Yuck. No classy. What are you doing up at 6am?” You are so drunk. You’re about to dribble off the stool, dribble first.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” says and, after you’ve blinked approximately 50 times at that vaguity, he adds, “I usually hear you come in and bump into a whole bunch of shit. Have you been to bed yet?”

“I considered it.” Your bravado is running out of steam, slowly being replaced by a flood of reality. You sit and blink as though you’re just about to start your next sentence… for a good 10 seconds. “I. He. It doesn’t matter.” You clear your throat, only to find the vodka bottle staring at you. Look at all the fucks you drank, Y/N.

“Was someone an ass to you?”

You look up at Dean with every intention of blowing off the whole thing but his glare surprises you. It’s all Young Lady this and The Truth Now that. “Jesus Dean, he was just a bit of a jerk alright?”

“Define jerk.”

“He called me fat,” you blub and sag. _That’s all. Just fat._

“’Jerk’ is a compliment. Stand up.”

 _Ugh rude. Fine._ “Woow-shit. I’m up.”

“Don’t puke on me,” he says and crouches down to collect you.

You’re offended. “Oh! Dean, I would soon as puke on you as defile your gorgeous ca- _hurr-uk,_ God. Gently.”

He’s wrapped his arms around your thighs and started carrying you down the corridors. “You think if you were fat I could do this?”

“You are struggling,” you slur.

“Well, you’re hugging my head, so I’m navigating by memory.”

“Hmm.” It’s lovely here. He smells so much better than you. “He said ‘Let’s fuck that gorgeous fat ass.’ Like I’m a ride or something.”

Dean sighs a long sigh. “I’m sorry you met an asshole tonight. Everyone who knows him, know he’s an asshole.” He says it quietly. “He’ll end up a demon. You’ll get to kill him one day.”

You hug Dean’s head a bit tighter and let the alcohol bring you all the clarity you’ve ever turned away. “I’m never going to be thinner than this. I do so much work. I run.” You sit up, your hands around Dean’s neck as you look down at him. “I fucking _run_ Dean. I _kill_ things. I’m strong!”

“I know,” Dean smirks up at you. “This is the size you’re meant to be, Y/N. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Really?! Wouldn’t it be easier to haul around a lighter woman?” 

“You see me askin’ for a lighter brother?” He says plainly. “You ain’t heavy.” Slowly Dean lets you slide down his body, a rosy hue flushing out his cheeks while you blink at his words. “I like hauling you around. I like your size.” He tucks his arms around you a little tighter.

“No,” you breathe.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Really.”

“Could you, ma- maybe, could you say all this when I can remember it?” you ask. “’Cause I’m prob’ly gunna to throw up soon and I do not want you around for that but I’m sure I’d like to hear what you just said in the morning.”

“It _is_ the morning,” he chuckles.

“Impossible,” you shake your head and grab onto his arm and the door frame. “It’s the middle of the night. Why would I be drunk and imagining in the morning? Oh hey. My room.“

“I’ll come check on you later today,” he says, leading you in and setting you on the bed. “Remind you of what I said.”

You lay back, unable to keep your eyes open or your mind awake. “Yesspls,” you slur. “Love that. Love you.”

Dean leans over you, brushing your cheek with his thumb. You don’t respond - you’re out cold - so he steals a moment to look at your lips, pink and shiny, and your eyelashes long and perfect on your cheek. He can imagine your eye colour, the sunshine-beam shine of your cheeks when you laugh, and how wonderful it is when you talk so quietly that it’s just you and him in a bubble of space, your sweet voice saying all the things he needs to hear. “I love you too, Y/N. I’ll remind you later. Lots.”


	3. Prompt: I’m not going to be sympathetic until you go to a doctor.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> letsdisneythings asked:
> 
> Maybe if you don't mind could you write something that has the line “I’m not going to be sympathetic until you go to a doctor.” Because that is definitely something I say very frequently

“Can you just… uh.” Dean points at the pen. “That.”

“What?”

“Pass me that?”

“What for? You can’t write.”

“Just pass me the pen!” Dean opens and closes his hand with mechanical awkwardness, trying to wave it in. He stares at it to avoid eye contact with you.

You pick up the pen and hand it to him. Sort of. Well, you hold it within his reach. “Your Majesty.”

Dean pinches a smile at you and takes the pen, gestures the snatch from his elbow seeing as his hand can’t grip it well enough, and it gets flung into his chest, falling into his lap. He picks it up and sighs harshly, and you drop your head as if to read your book while you watch him struggle.

He uses his left hand to arrange it into his right and rests his arm on the table, perfectly at peace with how this is going. He tries to write. He tries to write without wincing. He tries to write by glaring at his hand as the lesser fingers help out, shepherding the pen around the shape of an R… “Either help or fuck off,” he growls.

“I will help,” you say to your book, “by driving you to the clinic.”

“It was a goddamn dislocated finger,” he grinds out. “It’s taped. It’ll be fine.”

You turn a page… “So why are you asking for help?”

“I’m _not. Look_ -” Dean stops and fumes at you. “You started calling me your boyfriend last week. Where the fuck is the sympathy, huh? I’m _hurt_. And all you can do is tell me what I should do.“

“I’m not going to be sympathetic till you go to a doctor and get that hand looked at. Boyfriend or not.”

Dean takes a beat, and through the discomfort, from his empty soapbox, he tries a different tack. “Well, I had no idea you were such a heartless girlfriend,” he mumbles. “Little disappointing, but okay.”

“Um, _sorry_ , but I couldn’t feel my fingers after that fight and your first words were _What you wanna do is_.” Your whole face scowls the question before you ask it. “What the hell was that?!”

“Well I was _distracted by my broken hand!”_

“ **HA!** ”

“Oh f’fuck’s sake.”

“Gettin’ my jacket! Ready in five, Babe.”

“Yeah yeah.”


	4. You actually have long red hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fandomismyspirit asked: Congrats lovely! Not quite sure where this came from, but here goes. Imagine that you're staying at the bunker and Dean discovers that you actually have long red hair.
> 
> OH my god! Where did this come from?! How?! Why would that be hidden?! My mind is everywhere! I’m so sorry, I don’t know where that came from either, but this is where it went…

“WA-shit!”

“SHIT! _DEAN!_ ”

“I’M SORRY!!” he yells at the door. “I’M SO SORRY!”

“WHAT POSSESSED YOU TO NOT KNOCK?!” you yell back.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he pleads. “I promise, I didn’t see anything.” Dean bites his teeth together and hopes to hell you believe him.

On the other side of the door you’re clutching the towel to your chest, having finally wrapped it safely around yourself, and you’re glaring at the door because there’s a liar on the other side. “Okay,” you call. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” you hear. “Didn’t see anything.”

You do not have the patience for any more of this than is absolutely necessary.

Suddenly Dean realises he’s standing there, showing you his ear, since the door’s been opened. His gazes dances around the bathroom behind you, at nothing particular, as he puts his hands on his hips and smiles like he might ask what you’re up to this weekend and oh hey neighbour could I borrow your hedge trimmer.

“What didn’t you see?”

He frowns, shakes his head in a loose waggle because the memory is too distracting for him to think properly.

You sigh, and get it over with. “It was a leprechaun.”

That gets his attention. “Wait, seriously? A leprechaun did that?!”

“Let me make one thing clear _Dean_.” Dean backs up as you get in his face, each step compelled by each word. He holds his hands up in surrender on the other side of the corridor, tiptoeing up the wall as you drip and scold him. “You _do not know_ me well enough to get that story. All you need to know is that that fuckin’ leprechaun died. _Hard_.”

“Right,” he gulps. “Of course.”

“Not a word,” you warn. “It’s private.”

Dean nods and give you his most earnest face until you relax back to your regular height, then lower your pointed finger, and even until your get back into the bathroom. “You got it, Y/N,” he nods, wiping the air flat with his hands. “Not a word.”

You slam the door, ready to forget the whole thing.

But half an hour later, you’re coming up on the kitchen and you can hear Dean’s words to Sam before he can see you’re there.

“-like a fancy little troll doll between her legs!”

“Seriously?!” Sam whispers.

“Yeah! This gorgeous, like, _crimson_. Very Celtic. _Willowy_.”

“Huh-” Then Sam freezes, because there you are, in the doorway, burning a hole in the side of Dean’s head with your seething glare.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, Dean.” You walk over to pour yourself a coffee and lean back, watching him very carefully chew two full cheeks of food. “Fun fact Sam: it’ll wear off. In fact, it started off a bright, iridescent red!”

“Really,” says Sam. “That fact is fun.”

_“Sure is._ Some curses are temporary, and some curses _last_.” Your grin has bite and Dean’s become aware that actually, you’re talking to him, and he’s getting smaller every second. “I can’t always get my curses to do what I want. I should _keep trying_ though, huh?”

Dean looks at you cautiously, wondering what on earth those words might mean, and manages to push his food down in his throat in one twisting swallow. 

You smile and sip and enjoy Dean having a good hard think about that.


	5. A potato, a bowl of lime jellybeans, and a purple sharpie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @emptywithout asked: Ok, ok… how about this instead: Dean and “I told you I was going to need more of them!” Or, the three items could be a potato, a bowl of lime jellybeans, and a purple sharpie! I dunno, my own NaNo isn’t going so well and I’m hoping to inspire something somewhere!

If you were thinking, you’d think this was bad. Bad for the team, bad for you, bad for tomorrow.

“I think…” No, you can’t. “Okay so I think we should- Wait- Okay. I have an idea.”

“You barely even have a sentence,” smirks Dean. The three of you make a rough triangle as you lay on the floor, all on your side so you can reach the bowl of jelly beans in the middle.

You ignore him and all the lack of thinking, and keep talking. “You gotta put three crosses- no, two crosses on me,” you say, holding up the purple Sharpie. “And I’ll put two crosses on each of you. And you two.”

“What?” says Dean.

“Where?” asks Sam.

“Anywhere you like.” You’re smiling, with no attempt at demure, whatsoever. “And two on each other.”

“So, four each; two from each the other two,” Sam sort of clarifies.

“Ugh, you word so good for all this vodka,” you say and sit up to ask the potato her opinion. “What do you think, Desiree? And was that your vodka?”

Dean dances her on the carpet and gives her a suitably high voice. “I think it sounds hot aaaaaand terrible. Let’s do it!”

“You’re my kinda veggie, Desiree!” You climb off the floor, giggling as you crawl toward Sam. He’s laying on his side, leaning on one elbow. “Buttonsssss.”

Sam undoes one or two, and bounces with the occasional “Uh huh… a-huh-huh,” as you mark a cross on his sternum, and then one where his neck meets his shoulder. “Do you remember why we came here?” he asks, his chin creasing to look at the purple.

“Nnnnooooooo,” you answer, going over and over the cross. 

Dean’s feet are near Sam’s head, boots crossed, and he’s helping himself to the last lime green jelly beans from the bowl. “I told you I was going to need more of them!”

“No, you didn’t,” pouts Sam. “More of what?”

Dean and Desiree the Potato watch Sam take the marker and put a cross under your left ear, then one inside your wrist. “I remember vodka,” you squish your face to dig up the memory. “I remember saying _Just green jelly bean?_ ”

“Just green jelly bean?” mimics Sam. He smiles and sighs, letting his head drop back. He doesn’t open his eyes but he does pull on your upper arm, tugging you over him, so you sit on his thighs, then his hips, giggling at nothing.

“My turn,” slurs Dean, crawling over and trying to take the marker, but Sam swats him away. “Nu-uh, rules.” Sam takes Dean’s jaw and pulls him closer, and Dean pouts, sitting on his feet and leaning on his hands like a good dog, while Sam draws a wobbly cross on his cheek. “Aaaand here.” Sam concentrates on pulling up Dean’s shirts. “On your belly. Jelly belly.”

Dean drunkenly watches him draw, then plucks the marker away. “Okay then. Two for you.” He leans forward so that he’s resting one hand on the otherside of Sam, a bridge over his brother while he draws a big cross right above Sam’s nose. 

“Wait, I got one for you.” He looks at you, the marker appearing below his chest and you borrow it to kneel up and pull Dean’s collars down, drawing a little cross right at the edge of his hairline on the back of his neck. “There,” you say, and give it a little kiss.

Dean gives a short hum, coming back to sit on his feet, looking at the skin of your neck with lazy eyes and whetted lips while you hold the marker up between you. “One more for Sam,” you remind him.

Without ceremony, Dean tugs up Sam’s t-shirt and hooks a finger in the waistband, putting a cross as low as he can reach, right in the trail of hair.

“Aaaatickles,” grins Sam.

“Here,” says Dean. His focus is heavy, slack, but determined, and he pulls the neck of your t-shirt down hard enough to make you curl over, laughing _Ow, Dean_ , before he goes the other way and hoiks it up, hooks his thumb into the hem and holds it to your neck so he can mark the spot between your breasts. And when the bra won’t give enough for him to do it one handed, he gets three fingers in there to yank it down further. “Ow!” you laugh, cupping hand over the breast that’s almost spilled free.

Dean holds your jaw then, a full hold that has his palm pressed up against your swallow, his forearm flush down your chest. He watches the purple marker drag across-across over your lips, and he stares at it, stares so hard he doesn’t notice you take the marker and slip it up under his shirt to scratch a messy X over a nipple.

You gaze into his eyes, unable to register Sam’s fingers spidering up your waist, and Dean stares right back. “Jelly green, belly Dean.” The noise of nothing seems to fold over in your ears.

Dean’s eyes drop down, seeing his hand hold you up, and he looks over at the potato and the bowl of jelly beans. “Weren’t we supposed to…”

Turning to look shows you the cross on his cheek and you lean over to kiss it. Dean looks back to you, serious but dumb. He can’t remember what he can’t remember.

“Heyey,” Sam says, tugging on his brother’s arm. “Where’dyou put ‘em?”

Dean leans back, which lets Sam see where Dean marked you, but he’s also trying to see himself. Or more than himself. “Sammy,” he sighs, but can’t get the focus to say more. He has his hands… his knees… there’s carpet. Dean can’t see much else. He realises Sam’s sitting up now, holding your head with both hands while he kisses you, fully and softly. He watches Sam’s shiny tongue, pink and tender, slip across your teeth and taste your sighing mouth. Dean can’t look away from it. His eyes follow you both as Sam lays down, or is pushed down, and you kiss him on each cross - his forehead, the neck, his chest, and then down on his belly, eating around his waistband with lose bites. Sam rolls his head side to side, giggling every now and then, and smiling.

When Dean pulls you up and away from Sam, he means to ask you something, something about the time, or where you are, but you kiss him and all he can think is that it’s wrong, that- that he’s meant to be kissing you. He pulls you away and turns your head, helping himself to your neck - the first cross Sam did, the one that made him jealous - and kisses you as though he’s thirsty for your sweat.

Your fingers in his hair, scratchy nails on his scalp, they make him hungry, wanty, and he moves you. He pushes you, leads you back perpendicular to Sam so that your hips roll back along Sam’s thigh. Then he clambers around between Sam’s leg’s too, lifts you enough to get your shoulders in front of Sam’s jeans pockets. He pulls your top up, all the way up, finding Sam’s hands there to help it all the way, then your bra is gone too, and Sam’s hands are sliding around, framing the cross Dean has yet to taste.

Sam sits all the way up, your bare shoulders sliding up his chest, the weight of your breasts falling nicely into his palms. Dean sits back, gaping at you slack and draped in his brother’s arm. Sam licks and nibbles around the cross under your ear and for a sharp second, his gaze catches Dean’s. The peripheral haze disappears and a both of them see darkness; a cold, empty cabin with no fire in the hearth and a door left open. They understand, with dread and panic, they’re not supposed to look at each other, they can’t even tell if they’re alone, but neither of them can think fast enough to know what to do next.

“Are we really going to do this in front of Desiree?” Your hand slips up around Sam’s neck, then Dean feels your fingers under his shirt, tracing the mark you left under there. Sam’s eyes watch them, and Dean looks down too. He can’t remember what he can’t remember.

Sam’s lips find your neck again, and Dean nearly falls onto your mouth, tasting your tongue, pulling on Sam’s shoulder to keep you close enough. Sam puts his hand over Dean’s and they grip, hard, holding on for something, but no one can remember what.


	6. If you can't sleep... we could have sex.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dorky-and-i-know-it asked: Ali Ali Ali!!! Insert excited screaming gif. You deserve alll the followers all the time and all the fandom love. Could I pretty please ask for a Dean drabble with the line "If you cant sleep... We could have Sex?" Pretty please!!
> 
> Thank you gorgeous girl!! Okay, fingers crossed you like it…

“Y/N… you awake?”

You don’t answer, and Dean watches your chest go up and own a few times before nudging your foot and asking again. “Y/N… c’mon gorgeous, wake up.”

 _Iiiiiin_ and out your breath flows, heavily, signalling your slow resurfacing. “Nooooo, God Dean.” You lift your head and blink at the room. “Lemme sleep.”

“You know I can’t do that,” he smiles gently. “You okay?”

“Mmmm. I been better. I’m glad you’re here though.” You mean it, and it makes you a little sad.

“Me too.” He can’t have any of that sad fluffy talk though, not now. “Hey, if you can’t sleep… we could have sex?”

You snort. “Oh, ow, don’t make me laugh.” Slowly you try to adjust yourself into a shape more comfortable but there isn’t a position you haven’t tried. Your shoulders have almost no feeling how. Parts of you stick to bloodied fabric, and the concrete under you is sapping the warmth from your very bones. “Well, sex’d be great. A lovely distraction. Why don’cha come over here and get things started Big Boy.”

“You know I would if I could, but uh-” Dean gestures as his own arms, wrists cuffed high above him. “Next time we should organise _beforehand_ who’s going to be the dom.”

“Ha! Yeah I thought _you_ would-” You go along with the joke, moving your hands like they’re not chained to the wall above you.

“Yeah, and _I_ thought, what with your high heels and all- ah, next time.” It’s a wide room, and Dean doesn’t like how he has to reach his legs out to touch yours. If the demons come back to work on you again, he can’t interfere at all. And there’s enough of them that getting anyone upset won’t distract them from hurting you - there’s enough hurt to go around.

“How many hours you think before we start sharing our darkest secrets?” God you’re thirsty. You’d drink your own blood for some liquid to pass your lips.

“Whaddya wanna know?” Dean offers it as though he has nothing to hide.

“Everything.”

It takes him a few seconds, but the smirks again. His dark secrets aren’t that deep, and never have been. Maybe you already know. Instead he shakes his head and half smiles - _you don’t wanna know_ , is what he’s trying to say.

Likely. “I’ll tell you everything too.”

If you were next to him, if he knew for sure whether anyone would get out of here…. This is too hard, so far away and watched. He swallows away the truth.

“Tell you what,” you say, giving up for a while. “Next time I can’t sleep, I’ll come knock on your door.” Dean looks up at you and tries to see what you’re saying, through the blood and bruises, and realises that when you’re this thirsty, and this hungry, and this gut-tight worried for someone you love, all you can taste is hope. “See if you feel like not sleeping too.”


	7. Magic Eight Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> plaidstiel-wormstache asked: I really hope I’m in the 10! Congrats mate! Place: in a store where teenagers playing Marco Polo. Object: Magic Eight Ball Things Feeling: Nostalgic
> 
> Cheers dude! I have no idea if you’re in the top 10. I’m gonna do these till I run out of interest/puff/inspiration. xo

“Oh my god, you see this?” You show Dean the ring-hook game you’ve found and start pumping the little buttons to try and get them over the spikes. “Lost hours in the car on this game.”

“Huh,” he looks at it for half a second, since he barely needs more to know what you mean. “I found a Magic-8 ball.”

“Oh my god.” You grab his wrist to look at the toy. “I never had one of these. Okay-” Closing your eyes you ask your first ever 8-ball question. “Is Sam going to find what he wants in the next five minutes?”

You give Dean’s wrist a manic shake… “ _Don’t count on it,_ ” he reports.

“Actual Magic,” you beam at him.

“MARCO!”

“Jesus Son!” Dean glares at the kid next to him. You know Dean means _Son_ to mock them both, but the maths is actually quite realistic. “Use your damn phone!”

The kid dead-eyes Dean and rolls his eyes _on the inside_ , and Dean double-chins is offense in reply.

A few aisles over you hear “POLO!”

The boy calls out “I’M COMING TO THROW MY PHONE AT YOU!”

“IF YOU FEEL THAT’S NECESSARY!” answers his friend.

Dean watches him go with surly distrust. He shakes the ball: “Will I save that kid’s ass later?… _Most likely_. Great.”

“That’ll be satisfying.” You put back the ring game and pick up a pen with a lollipop case for a lid.

Dean grumbles something about his lawn and suddenly Sam’s behind you. “Did you find it?”

“Find what?” you ask.

“The slap bands!”

Dean squishes a cheek. “We were meant to be looking for something?”

“Guys!” Sam’s so tired of this. “I _told_ you my idea! That’s why we’re here!!”

“MARCO!”

“Fucking,” Dean jumps at the call from the next aisle. “I’m going to throw my phone at him.”

Sam explain, again apparently. “We can draw the symbols on a slap band and just smack it on them! On any part of them! It’s-”

_**“POOOOLOOOO!”** _

All three of you straighten, turning toward the end of the aisle. That wasn’t the kid, nor his friend. That was a deep, rumbling, hollow reply. That was something from which people run _away_.

“Uh, Marco?” The kid tries again. “You okay dude?”

Dean shakes the Magic-8 ball. 

_Outlook not so good._


	8. A Shining Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous said: “i wonder how it feels for cas to hear the shining soul he rescued from hell call himself poison.” based on a text post! could be gen or slash? 
> 
> It got long! And I took it more as an idea than as a line to be used.
> 
> 1K words, TW for reference to self-harm, angst, Dean comfort.

Every time you stand in Dean’s room, when the bedside lamp is the only light on, it feels unreal. The glow, somehow, is on everything. Like it’s staged. Everything that happens here feels either hyper-real, or like a secret from history. The walls are plain, the memorabilia precise. You always imagine one wall just retreating, grinding away and revealing something retro-futuristic.

“You okay?” Dean’s reading something before he gets ready for bed, and you’ve chosen this in-between hour to come and say something because now, after days of thought, is when it feels tangible enough, but not yet redundant.

“Yeah.” You focus back on him and take a step closer, to the end of the bed. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

You had argued, days ago, and this eye contact now makes your heart feel small. You haven’t looked at each other properly in a while, and to watch him not look away makes you feel like you’ll never make a difference, not up against the constancy of his mind. If you’re going to say anything, no matter how useless, now’s the time. You just can’t not have tried, not again.

“I wanted to ask,” you say, stepping forward more. “Um, I-” Take the chair? Or stand. Maybe lean against the tallboy. Dean shifts his legs to make room, though, so you perch on the edge of the bed.

No, too temporary. You shift onto it properly, turn to him, and do your best to drag your gaze from his chest, upwards.

“What if… If I had been the one, the righteous one who broke,” you begin, finding the firmness of voice you hoped for, “what would you say to me?”

Dean’s expression shifts incrementally, wondering why, squinting at when, scowling at how… and you match him with yours. Your face pleading because you know, you’re _sure_ , he’d tell you you’re human, that you should forgive yourself, that you have to move on, that they would have taken forever if they needed and that it wasn’t a failure of yours, that it _wasn’t your fault._

“Y/N.” 

Maybe he can read your mind, but it hasn’t helped. Your name is said through teeth and warning, and you panic a bit.

Your hand slips into his, tight and desperate, asking him to wait, think, just wait, because he’ll see, he’s just as important as you are.

It doesn’t feel like he’s waiting though. He’s tolerating. He’ll sit through whatever intervention you think you need to do and then you can get the hell out. He’ll tolerate this too.

So you say something. “You called yourself poisonous and Cas _winced_.” Dean huffs a sigh, glares at the wall for an angel’s naive feelings. “He… He looked at you like a parent who’d found their kid’s cutting scars.”

That makes him think, reluctantly. You watch the thought roll around in his head. Maybe he’s thinking of Sam. Maybe his dad.

“You’re not responsible for the way we feel Dean.” You squeeze his hand, and his thumb, brushing over the back of yours, makes your heart bounce. “But you don’t live in a bubble. You affect us.” Tentatively you shift forward, your hip inches from his, and pull his hand into your lap so you can hold it with both of yours. “I know, if it were me who’d been used for the first seal,” - He glances at you, because you said _used_ , not _broke_ , - “you’d be watching out for me and my guilt. You wouldn’t let me eat my own tail over guilt.”

He blinks low, at his lap, tolerating. 

“Why- Why won’t you let me do the same for you?”

“Because you’re better than me.” He can barely even move his face. “You’d deserve it.”

He doesn’t expect it, but couldn’t fight it off anyway, because you turn to him and lean over for it, pulling him so you can clamp your arm across his shoulders and hug him to you, wrap your grip over his neck and hold his head by yours, and you hold him there, so he can’t see your tears. “Please Dean… can you please feel how much we love you? Just a little bit?”

At first his arms around you are loose, just for stability, because he doesn’t want to engage in this. It’s never been a step of healing he ever worked towards. It was always meant to be denied.

“We’re not fools.” Your words are messy with spit, your breath shaky. “Cas didn’t make a mistake. Your soul still shines and it’s worth us. Please stop.”

Dean lets you move his head so that your temples are pressed together and you talk in the space between your chests. His hands are on your shoulders now, pulsing with each effort to remain unaffected, his chin rolling forward to loosen his salty throat.

You brush your hands down the back of his head and tell him. “Even if it just means you stop saying that stuff out loud. Don’t give it air, okay? Come see me and let me say the things you should hear. You’d forgive anyone else,” you say, grasping and emphasising the words, “ _anyone else_ for what you did. _Please,_ please try.”

You lift your head, but Dean doesn’t look up. All the jaw-clenching in the world can’t stop the tears from falling. But he nods, haltingly.

“You’ll try?”

Dean clears his throat. “M-mm I’ll try.”

“You’re so important to us.”

“Yeah okay.” Dean turns his head, as if to shake off the emotion and get out of it all, but you pull him back with your hand on his jaw.

“No you need to see me say this.”

More reluctance, more denial, but then he said he’d try so he climbs his gaze back up to yours and waits to hear it.

When you’re sure he won’t turn away, you tell him, “It doesn’t matter what you do. We love you, and you’re important to us. We love you so much.”

He manages to keep looking at you, all the tension drained from his face. The smallest of nods is all you get.

“Nothing you do will change that.”

You kiss him, firm and pressing and high on his cheekbone, and hug him to you as hard as you ever have. Dean lets you, and he lets himself hug you back.


	9. Sorry not Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dracosfreckle asked: For your 3.9k celebration (whoop!!)... No character preference (you do you, boo) + (it's a bit angsty, woops) + "This is the last fucking thing I thought would happen, but you know what? I don't give a shit. Grow the fuck up."  
> ...  
> Thank you lovely!!

“I’d love it if you stopped pouting.”

“You didn’t even ask.” Dean juts his jaw with a hand on a hip. He’s been circling the dent in the driver’s side panel for 5 minutes. “And now it’s got _this_ , and-”

“I’ll fix it if you want.” You’re standing at the open driver door, the groceries and extras in both hands. “I’ve done some panel beating before.”

“No, nope,” Dean blinks, with no intention of a Thank You for the offer. “I’m the only one who works on my car.”

“Okay then.” You hip the door closed and make for the stairs.

“How did it happen again?”

You stop and turn back. You’ve been acting super normal about this trip because you’d gotten things to make a nice dinner. It’s been a whole month since you moved in. You know the car is precious to Dean, but accidents happen. “Someone dinged it. While it was parked.”

“Was she in the parking space?” he asks. “Like, properly inside the lines?”

 _Pace yourself_. “Yes.”

“Did you see who did it?”

“No, I was in the shop.” You adjust your hold on the bags and watch him peer at the concave evidence. 

He shifts his feet and stares at the dent some more.

“Right, so… all done? Am I free to go?”

“It’s just…” Oh wow, he’s actually struggling with an emotion here. “It’s my _car_. And I know it’s not bad,” he reassures, “but when you take her out, you gotta-”

“Okay, no. Nonono. This was someone else being stupid. I did nothing wrong.”

“You didn’t even ask!”

Well that is a whole lot louder than is necessary. Guess who else can be loud. “It’s _the_ car. We only have _one car_. My car isn’t fixed yet so we have-” You point with the bags. “- _this car_. I’m supposed to ask permission every time I need to go somewhere?!”

“Because it’s _my_ car.” Logic.

“Well, and _Sam’s_ car. How do you know I didn’t ask him?!”

“Because he would’ve _asked me!”_

Well, that’s what you get for being nice. “Jesus, Dean. Look. This is the last fucking thing I thought would happen, but you know what? I don’t give a shit. Grow the fuck up.“ Off you go, down the steps and to the kitchen. And Dean doesn’t rush to catch up.

The second bag is already put away when he stalks in. He watches what you’re doing for a while, and the steam seems to go out of him. “You don’t think at least a head’s up woulda been nice?”

You stop, veggies in both hands, and look at him.

“We didn’t even know you were gone.”

“Ye- okay.” Celery down. “Fair point…. To be honest I wanted to be out and back before you noticed.”

“What is all this for?” He can tell you had a plan, maybe even a surprise, which would explain a bit.

“Just, I dunno. Month anniversary dinner.” You nudged the bag of peaches and wondered if it might’ve been a last meal. “Sorry, I was a bit harsh before. …And sorry about your car.”

“Eh, that’s okay. Fixable.” His mind’s already on other things. “Is this… for pie?” He’s so cute when he’s hopeful. You’d leave peaches around just to see him pine.

“Shyeah! ‘course! You goose, as if I’d skip pie. I know _that_ much.” You smile and it’s good, a nice good, to smile with him.

“Damn, killer hunter, pie from scratch, _and_ panel beating skills,” he smirks. “Where you been?”

“Ha, busy preparing the perfect woman for you, Dean.” You give him a cheeky little wink and, didn’t you know it, he has a smile you haven’t seen yet. Christ. Pace yourself.


	10. If it was meant to fit...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> feelmyroarrrr asked: Dean, “if it was meant to fit I wouldn’t need to shove it”, bunker and glove, 😘
> 
> littlegreenplasticsoldier answered: For you my love, anything.

If you had ever told Sam to stand on one leg, he’d flat out refuse to do it. Not without a well referenced and very persuasive text that could justify such silliness.

Yet here he was, 10 seconds into half a hop, wishing he could discover some long dormant eavesdropping superpower.

“If it was meant to fit,” he’d heard through the door, “I wouldn’t need to shove it.“

Well, who wouldn’t hold up for that.

“Of course it’s meant to fit. They _all_ fit,” Dean’s voice answers yours. “You just gotta- wait a tick…”

“Seriously Dean, one of us is gonna get hurt here. Just-”

“Gimme some lube.”

“ _What?_ That’s not safe!”

 _No, lube if very safe,_ thinks Sam. He almost says it aloud before stopping himself. Of all the things for you to not know about! Lube is _crucial_.

 _“Shuttup!”_ Dean snaps. “Just lube me up and help! _Je_ sus!”

Sam stands up straight and glares at the door. He’s glad, he guesses, that you two seem to have figured it all out, but it doesn’t sound like things are going well. Not honeymoonish, anyway.

Your sigh is loud enough to come through the wood too, closely followed by grumbling, a squidgy sound, some slathering, and the occasional grunt. Sam looks at the space under the door, suddenly conscious of how easily he could be discovered.

“There,” sighs Dean. “How’s that?”

“Oh yeah-”

“Yeah?”

“ _Yeah!_ Dean. Baby. _Nice.”_

“Yeah?”

“ _Hot_.”

“Yeah girlfriend,” Dean’s all smugness. “Damn straight.”

At this point, Sam’s sure he’s heard enough. It’s weird, it’s a little quirky, but whatever, it’s a start. He creeps away, relieved that you two have found each other, over what he can’t guess, but it doesn’t matter. Y’all can finally get on with a normal existence instead of being awkward around each other. Thank fuck. If he had to endure another silent car trip of no eye contact he’d let himself out at the next cliff.

Although that means, unfortunately, that he doesn’t hear what’s next.

“Told you,” Dean grins. “Like a glove.”

“Sure did.” You marvel at the effort. “I would never have picked you as a ladies’ 12. But damn if you can’t rock that pump.”

“Yeah, I’ve got the hips for it. Now,” Dean turns at your mirror and does his best I’m-not-wearing-4-inch-heels-right-now face. “Do I really have to wear make-up?”

“It’s vampire targeting cross-dressing men, Sweetheart.” You stand, walk over and look way up at his gorgeous, sour pout. What a canvas. “Unless you want your little brother and his mile long legs to upstage you, you is gettin’ _made_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Click through for an addition by @broketheweb ](https://littlegreenplasticsoldier.tumblr.com/post/167360818217/dean-if-it-was-meant-to-fit-i-wouldnt-need-to)


	11. ...I wouldn't need to shove it (Sam, Twister, alcohol, high heels)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ellen-reincarnated1967 asked: If you're at capacity i totes understand, but may i celebrate with you by offering Sam, Twister, alcohol, and high heels? Warp away
> 
> Sweetheart, there is no warping required ;D This follows on from my drabble for “If it was meant to fit I wouldn’t need to shove it” and builds on the excellent contribution/reblog by @broketheweb…

The three of you sit in the Impala, the Twister nightclub neon sign flickering over the shine.

“Glad I spent good money on the wig,” Dean mutters, checking himself. He’s wearing a fitted dress of yours, flatly refusing the g-string (no pantie line!) but, curiously, okay with the spanx. Helped his form, he said. Added to that is the waterfilled condoms doubling as his bosom. “You sure I’m gonna pass muster?” he worries, pushing a lock behind his ear.

“Ye-heah! ‘Course! What makes you think you won’t?” you ask.

“Uuuu-I dunno. I just feel-” he frowns at himself, trying to find the word… “beefy?”

“Come stand on the pavement,” Sam suggests, and you all amble out, stepping into a side alley for a moment. The guys adjust their dresses and wiggle on their heels. “Does that help? With the shoes?”

“Yeah a little,” Dean guesses. He keeps eyeing Sam’s chest, and when Sam squints back, Dean explains “Just seems unfair that that fits you all so well.”

“Dean! Stop it! You’ve got eyelashes to die for and lips that could stop traffic. You won’t know which thing to fight off first.” Seriously, with the mascara and that murderously red lippy, he’s nearly illegal in every state. 

You peek out and see the line for the door is short again, so you decide now’s good enough. From Dean’s purse you dig out his flask and down a few sips, slipping it into your back pocket. “Come on, I gotta get drunk enough to be your drag hag. Vodka calls.”

“You look really nice, by the way,” Dean says to you. “I know it took a lot of energy to get all of us going but you really look gorgeous.”

Goodness, you didn’t expect that. “Thank you, Dean,” you smile. Sam huffs a little, drops into one hip. “You look very nice tonight too Sam. Very glamorous.”

He stops a moment, then waggles a little upside-down smile, running his palms down his hips. “Thanks Y/N. ‘preciate it.”

You smile and, as he looks at you, you dash your gaze at Dean for a moment to suggest paying it forward. Sam glances too, but he’s hesitant, unsure, so you encourage him a little more, eyebrows high and hopeful.

“Uuuuh, forget it,” sags Dean and he clomps out to the street. 

You gawk at Sam’s poor form. _What the hell?,_ says your face.

“N- _Dean_. It’s a real nice dress man-” Sam says, trotting after him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean gripes, and he checks the traffic a moment.

“Wai-wait, Dean!” You pull on his wrist, dragging him back. “You can’t walk over there like that! People will think you’re possessed by an orang-utan!”

He practically fits a whole tantrum into one sigh and says “Fine. So how?”

“Just, pretend you walking on a rail,” suggests Sam. “I’ll go first.”

And holy hell, does he go. He checks the cars, does a quick flick of his hair, over to one side, and walks. Just runways the whole thing, not a pause, not a flinch, straight to the back of the line. His long legs create some sort of optical illusion of scale, making you focus on the gentle glitter of his sequinned dress. People _watch_.

“Wasn’t fucking kidding about that pageant shit,” grumbles Dean, not half impressed.

“It’s not a competition,” you tell him. “Just don’t fall over and don’t hate it.“

“I’m allowed to hate it,” grits Dean, snatching his purse from your hold. He wrangles the strap onto his shoulder, sets himself tall, breathes in, and takes off.

Your mistake, at this point, was to go last, because now you have to watch Dean’s ass, in black leather, mince away from you, and damned if high heels don’t give those buns the rise they always needed.

What Sam carries in grace and form, Dean delivers in style. He’s pin-up gorgeous in the black leather, black patent pumps the perfect full-stop to his Fuck Off attitude. In fact he’s dripping just as much dominance and attitude as he ever did, it’s just that he’s much more formidable tonight. The patrons who watched Sam approach did so openly, since Sam seemed to invite it. But they watch Dean with their eyes, not their heads. They peek over their shoulders when he stands at the end of the line. The brave ones wink, and Dean response with a pointed lick of the lips, the tightest of little smiles; _Bite me Linda_. (With any luck, Linda will actually try.)

Now you have to catch up. The traffic holds you back, and then you have to stop start, and you try to keep it cool but really there’s no time to get a proper strut going. Sam pretends to not know you; but Dean’s eyes follow every move.

“I’m jealous of your curves,” he says quietly.

“I’m jealous of your hair. And your boobs. And your butt.”

“I know, I’m a goddess. You stay with me okay? Pretend I’m on my first night out after a break up,” he suggests.

“Ooh, drama. I like.”

Dean grabs Sam’s arm, yanking him back to whisper in his ear. “We just broke up okay. You’re my slutty ex.”

“What?! _No!”_ Sam is aghast and offended. “I wouldn’t cheat on someone!”

Dean slowly turns his stare to him, slack with the slight double chin… “Least of all your brother.” _What?_

Sam twitches all over, frowns severely. “Fine, but we could’ve just broken up like normal people.”

“I need an excuse to cover up how drunk I need to be to, One, do this, and, Two,” he turns to you, “survive these _god-damned shoes!_ You do this every weekend?!”

“Bottom’s up buttercup.” You hand back his flask. “Wait till the groping starts.”


	12. Boss!Dean protecting you for workplace bully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: I have a request I hope works for you, ok if it doesn't. I'm in a situation where a certain person keeps trying to make her errors my fault, wants me to resend emails to prove what I said, never apologizes when it's proven I did it right and she made another mistake again. The one person who could stand up for me and say I am right each time and that the other person needs to stop this behavior doesn't have the backbone to stand up for anything. 1/2 I desperately need Dean to stand up for me and defend me. Do you think he could do that? I feel so bullied and alone. I know I’m anon so no prob if it doesn’t work for you. And no need to include my too long sob story request if you do write something :) Thank you!! 2/2  
> ..  
> Oh love, I’m sorry you’ve got a jerk at work. I’m not sure if my interpretation translate for your workplaces - and it’s not especially grand or sweeping - but it feels like an AU that might work.

“Hey, did you see Alex’s replacement?” Carla was there bright and early, at your desk with news she had and you didn’t.

“No. Why is Alex being replaced?” You’re friendly with Carla because, for the most part, she’s friendly. Technically. In practice.

“His dad is really sick. He’s got all this leave so he’s spending it with them, sorting stuff out for who knows how long. This guy’s been moved over from somewhere.“

The skin on your neck starts to tighten with anxiety. How long would this last? What will he be like? What if he doesn’t like you, or if someone else makes him dislike you before you get a chance?

“I’m gunna put a coffee on his desk before he arrives,” says Carla. 

You look up at her from your seat, but she’s watching the front door. “That’s a nice idea. I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.” It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t have it the way she guesses; a nice gesture is a nice gesture, and you’re not going to attract cattiness by pointing out details.

Carla leaves and you watch her go. It always feels like watching her actually leave will keep her gone, and you let your lungs fill properly once you’re alone.

Later, at the front desk of the floor, you’re digging around for a stapler for something you actually needed to print, when a new client appears. He’s terribly handsome with full eyelashes and full lips, and as you clack the stapler around in your hand, trying to get the right part around the paper and not your finger, he smiles broadly and if you had the power to do more than swallow, well, that’d be good.

“Wow, a stapler,” he remarks. “Been a while since I had to use one of those.”

“Yeah, we’re not _quite_ paperless,” you agree. You crunch the stapler around the paper, so competently, except its out of staples. “Of course. So, how can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Alex’s desk?”

“Oh! You’re his replacement!” The entire spectrum of adjectives flipbooks through your mind, from _Joy!_ to _Fuck!_ and before your face can give it all away you’re saying, “Right this way!” You pivot and walk, pausing for him to catch up.

“I’m Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester.”

“Yes! Of course,” you say. “Sorry, I’m Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you YN.”

“I work under you, actually.” Quite admirably, you manage to not flinch at the suggestiveness at that but, honestly, how the hell are you going to function while being under _him_. He’s so _handsome!_ And _burly!_

“Oh, great!” He seems genuinely pleased, and smiles at you. It’s entirely disarming, genuine and present, and you smile back. It’s a smile you don’t think you’ve ever made at work.

At Alex’s desk there’s a tall take-away coffee waiting, the word _Welcome_ swirled across the front. Dean looks at it curiously, blinking a bit. “Right,” he says, picking it up and comparing it to his own coffee. “Uh, maybe we can put that in a vase?” he looks at you.

“I’ll get right on it,” you grin, and take the cup with both hands. “If you need anything, I’m right out there. Just turn left for the bathrooms and tearoom.”

“Okeydokey,” he nods. “Thanks Y/N.”

An hour or so later, Dean calls you into Alex’s office - his office. You’d honoured the request for the vase and your heart thumped to see the coffee jauntily perched in it’s neck, sitting on the bench behind him. Your heart thumps entirely differently when you see Carla sitting in a seat opposite him.

“Hi Y/N,” he says, gesturing to the seat by Carla. “I’m just picking up where Alex left off and it seems you guys are halfway through an issue?”

“Uh, which issue is that?” you check.

“I was just explaining about last week how the report said- you know, there was the whole misunderstanding with you and when it went in- you remember I asked you to email Alex about it?”

“The report” didn’t say it; _she_ said it. And it wasn’t a misunderstanding with you; it was her mistake. And damned if it wasn’t the end of the world but holy hell you were sick of this, sick the point of nausea.

“Actually, she did email Alex.” 

You both look at Dean. He’s scrolling through what you guess is emails, his fingers tap-tap-tapping the down arrow just as fast as your pulse. “And I think this is the… _sixth_ time she’s emailed Alex about something similar. This year.“ Dean looks at Carla with a plainness that’s inescapable. He’s waiting for her to talk and, as much as you’d love to see her eat her _every wormy word_ , you gaze at the desk instead.

“Well, we all contribute to this work and, you know, Y/N and I collaborate well but sometimes, when people make mistakes, I feel it’s just important and fair if those things are clarified,” she explains. “And then we can make sure we improve-”

“Okay,” Dean cuts her off. He doesn’t seem that pleased with her reply, but he doesn’t want any more. “Thanks for that. Let me have a look at it all and we’ll see what comes up.”

And that seems to be that. He smiles at Carla, waiting for her to comprehend, and when she does, you make sure to stand up when she does.

“That’s a, um,” she points at the decorative coffee behind Dean, smiling hesitantly. “That’s a vase, not a bin.”

Dean glances back. “Oh yeah, I just wanted to celebrate people being nice.”

“Oh yeah, like flowers. Did you like it?” she asks, eyebrows expectantly high.

“Yyyeah,” he nods, a lipless smile. “Real tasty.”

Carla grins and turns, and Dean takes the seconds while she’s turned away to send you the slightest of glares, a little shake of the head. Nothing has ever given you more hope.

* * *

By 4pm, it feels like a week of Mondays already. You’re coming back from the bathrooms when you overhear Carla’s voice in Alex’s office. You wouldn’t normally stop to listen but her words “It’s just- she-” are high and desperate, and suddenly you fear for your reputation.

It’s Dean’s voice next though, and at the hinge of the door you can hide behind a plastic tree and hear him quite well.

“Carla, it’s not her,” he says firmly. “You’re allowed to make mistakes. They’re getting picked up, so it’s fine, it’s fixable. But you have to stop pinning it on Y/N. Every email I have about this kind of thing has you saying she said or did something, then her having to _email her words_ to Alex, and you saying _Oh! Okay! All good._ ”

“Okay.” Carla’s voice is small, confused.

“You should be apologising to her for putting her through that, to be honest,” he says and suddenly sweat dampens your armpits, your ears and face slapping-hot with embarrassment. “But it’d just be too uncomfortable for everyone involved,” he goes on. “What I _will_ be doing is talking to Alex, again, and insisting, right now, that you not do it again.”

“But what if she makes a mistake?!”

“I’m not talking about her mistakes, I’m talking about _yours_.” Goodness his voice is firm. Patient, but he doesn’t give an inch. “Everybody makes mistakes, Carla, and you pretending that your every error is actually hers is _actually_ bullying. Your last chance has past. No more, okay?”

You leave then. And at your desk, with your shaky hands and radiating cheeks, you’re sure she’ll come by and know you heard. Someone will know you weren’t just not at your desk, but there, _listening_ to Carla get managed by the new guy on his first day. But Carla doesn’t come by. No one does. You finish the day and go home without talking to anyone, and you spend the evening eating ice cream and relaying the day to your bestie by phone. She makes you tell her the whole thing three times. It’s glorious.

* * *

The rest of Dean’s assignment is extremely dull. Things go by clockwork. He’s amiable and lovely with you, friendly and easy to be with. Soon you can’t judge whether you’re fishing for reasons to visit his office - every opportunity seems like a gift to snatch up. But he does work closely with Carla, apparently managing her up to a more competent standard, and you can’t help but be jealous of the time. The only heartening aspect about it, is that she’s so clearly intimidated by his professionalism.

In less than two weeks, Alex’s dad gets better. Word arrives that he’ll be back for a few days to set up for a proper period of leave, and Dean appears at your desk for his last goodbye.

“Hey, so, I’m all done.” He seems a little different, more relaxed.

“Yeah.” You smile as naturally as possible. Your nicest smile, if you’re honest, trying to convey every positive thought you have. “We’ll miss you. I can’t even- You’ve made such a good difference.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“Really. I can’t tell you what a relief it is.” And he knows, you can tell, how much happier you’ve been just to know something was said. “Thank you.”

“It was a pleasure, honestly.” Then he grins at something private, looking down at his hands and nodding. “You know, I went over everything so carefully. Took a fine-toothed comb to every thing looking for a mistake of yours…” He looks up and shrugs his chin and the bad luck. “Y’just- Y’couldn’a given me a reason to call l you into my office?”

Ooohgosh. “I- _Dang_.” Dang, dang, dang. “I did such a good job for you.” Of all the luck. “Took a fine toothed comb to every thing I knew you’re gonna see.”

Dean grins, licks his lip in for a bite and nods, looking back down at his hands again, and takes a big breath. “Well, could I, um. Could I take you out for a drink? Congratulate you on a job well done?” He looks at you, somehow unaware of how you’d throw yourself across traffic for him, let alone your desk.

“Yes.” It just pops out. Thank god you didn’t stuff that up.

“Alright then. Well, as much as I’d like to see you every day for a few weeks, I’ll tell them to find someone else for Alex’s leave. Think they have some policy about not dating your superiors.”

“Oh, no- don’t date me if your career-!”

“No, trust me. I don’t need it. I _have_ a job, a little closer to home, too,” he assures you. “What I don’t have is a girlfriend.”

“Oh. Well then,” you grin, chuffed as all shit. “I can do that.”


	13. How could I ever forget about you? You're Satan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: 19 & 66 fluff w/ lucifer? ♥
> 
> You know, I forgot to say I don’t really write Lucifer because I think he’s a w f u l, (I mean he’s the literal worst!) but this is what I get for being sloppy; a challenge. Which went okay. By which I meant there is fluff, it’s definitely there, it’s just not actually fluffy. Sorry! Prompts bolded.

Lucifer is about to hate you. He has hated before - loathed, resented, despised, all of it. Goodness, he even invented a few of those emotions. But this will be _hate,_ the kind of feeling you bite out of your mouth because every reminder of it doesn’t just makes you angry, it hurts. It’s the the poison discovered after the bite, the shattering of a gift, salt on a rendered heart. Hate likes to make things worse.

These last moments would be ironic perfection, a perfectly saccharine perspective, before the 20/20 hindsight. In a few minutes time, he’ll gather them up like drowned puppies ready to carry their corpses forever. 

He’s leaning back in his chair watching you order coffee and feeling closer to peaceful than he’s ever felt or remembered. It’s a feeling built on months of trickled affection, nice and organic. Initially he picked you because you had hunted with the Winchesters. You’d left the life - for another go at college - but your connection tickled him, (maybe he needed a little risk in his romance,) and somewhere in there he kidded himself about how much an ex-hunter might accept his truth if you thought you knew him better.

Last month, he’d visited. You’d walked with him through town, under trees laden with greenery. You’d talked about anything you saw and he’d settled in enough to forget to be guarded, or to notice the constant reminders of his Dad. He’d laughed. He’d made you laughed. He’d liked it. And he sought you out to have it again. Idle time doing human things. He’d watched a movie with you, for Christ’s sake. By the end though, he thought he could forgive you for the film choice, because he’d loved the feeling of you snuggling up under his arm and hum against his chest, and when you’d peeked up at him and seemed to trust him more than anyone, reached with your lips and kissed him like he might run, he waited to see what you’d do. He let you lead. Decided to see what it was like to lay on his back under someone who weighed nothing and felt like eyelashes. In those minutes he’d taken in every freckle and crease, tested the kindness of his fingers, and lain back to feel something nice. “I think I need you,” he’d said. “You can have me,” you’d replied. So he did, inch by inch, in your bedroom, quiet and steady. He’d gazed into your eyes because you let him, and he reached himself inside you to give, and give, and give. He’d felt every brush, swam in every sensation, and seared the sight of you into his memory, gasping, reaching, your mind curling in on yourself as you focused on the pleasure he gave you, and it had felt so _good_ for him. There had to be a reason. He was glad. He thought that you may be someone he’d choose, like a holiday, or a gift to himself. He was happy.

Somehow, Lucifer had fallen complacent, or missed his own arrogance, and forgot to contact you after that. The regular catch ups were replaced with a long month of nothing. Time didn’t mean the same thing to Lucifer, and he’d thought that night had put a flag on you, a stamp on the relationship, in some way, forgetting that it doesn’t actually work like that.

Now, here you come towards his table. He sits up, smiling gently, watching you take the seat opposite.

“I though you’d forgotten about me,” you say. Your smile is small.

“ **How could I ever forget about you?** ” Lucifer says, rolling his head a little, because he thought it was true. “You’re my girl.”

“You may not realise this, but when someone’s your girl, you remind them of it. You call.”

Lucifer watched you swallow down your hurt and realised he’d made a mistake. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Y/N. I thought what had happened before would kind of… keep you. Can you forgive me?” He leaned forward. “I won’t do it again.”

You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and looked down at the coffee in your hands, your thumb scratching the lid’s edge. “I thought you just fucked me and left me.” You say it as though you’ve said it a dozen times, all the bitterness wrung out of it. “I was so hurt, I called a friend, to help me feel better.”

Your eyes flick up to his and you swallow, knowing he’ll figure it out quicker than you can predict. So you say you part now. “You lied to me,” you whisper.

You called a Winchester.

“ **You’re Satan** ,” you spit.

Lucifer curls, everywhere, like a dried leaf, in his hands, his gut, his brow. His gaze is so hard so quickly, so grinding and cold, you go deaf for a moment.

He’s more than that, he thinks. With you, he was more. Other things. And he _liked_ it. Was looking _forward_ to it. And that fucking _name_. That simple, stupid-

“You know what? Fuck it.” Lucifer’s cuts the words through the din at you. “Sure, I’ll be Satan for you,” he sneers. “But you remember this: I was ready to love you. I wanted someone to love and I chose you,” he says, his lips snarl, finger pointing. “And you betrayed me at the first test. You’re not even worth the monologue.”

He stands up, seething at the humanity around him, sugar sachets and lake views. He hates the feel of the wool weave under his hands as he grips your chair’s arm rest and leans down to talk to you. He hates the flavour of air conditioning on his tongue as he talks. “You might wanna go and find that Winchester again, Sweetheart. You’re gonna need each other.” He leaves then, disappears himself to somewhere that matches his mood so he can think of your face rather than look at it. That way, you’re there in his heart, a false perfection he can yell at, throw his self-pity at it like a ball against his cell wall. 

He decides, with all the self-awareness he doesn’t have, that he’ll hate you. It’s going to be his next big thing.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kayteonline asked: Hey pretty! So many congrats to you *again!!* If you're still taking these.. how about some DeanxReader - "I lost our baby" - Could be ReaderxDeans, could be someone else's - dealers choice! The twist.. no angst :D Even if you're at your limit I'm still so excited for your soon to be milestone and I can't wait to celebrate again! <33333
> 
> OMG I LOVE YOU. THIS was such a challenge to think up. I love that. And you. In the end I went with the fluffier version. I hope you like. Mwah!

“Could you- I don’t have any hands free.” You would’ve looked at Dean but the let down was so strong you had to grasp your breast and pinch a little to stem the flow. Otherwise poor little Emmie wiggled like a tick that’d hit an artery.

“You want me to feed you?” he checked.

“Yeah,” you said, looking up. “I’m starving. Feeders gotta feed.”

“Okeydokey,” he shrugged. So Dean sat on the little table beside the feeding chair and fed you dinner while you fed Emmie.

After a while, the flow settled and you could use your had to get a drink.

“Have you noticed how thin you’ve gotten?” Dean asked. “Your metabolism is mad.”

“Yeah, my body goes hard.”

“Sure does,” he said, and you glanced up for a smile, a quick wink. 

Most of your conversations were had over the baby these days and you realised then that she’s what you looked at while you talked. There was something so satisfying about watching her eat.

“It’s a parent thing isn’t it? An instinct, to want to see her eat something,” Dean commented.

“Come’ere.” You pulled on his shirt, tilting your chin for a kiss. “I love you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Mind reader.”

“Love you too,” he said, kissing you again.

Emmie took a long time to burp - all the foam, you figured - and you read on your phone, then read more after you put her down, stealing time for yourself. It took Dean sliding down the bed beside you to put it all away. You gave Emmie one last check before laying down and turning off the light.

When she woke for the next feed, you were on automatic. You got up, flicked on the night-light, sat in the feeding chair and did it all over again. Attach, wait, re-attached, wait, pinch, reattach, pinch… hand-express the other side so it doesn’t hurt so much… then burp and burp and burp and read your phone to keep from sleeping in the chair. You rarely remember putting her down and getting back into bed. You’ll do it again in another 3 or 4 hours. Emmie’s 10 weeks old.

…

“Dean!”

“What!”

“I’ve lost the baby.” You’re leaning on your elbow, in middle of the mattress, frowning at the crook of your arm where the baby so often is. It’s more you’re just reporting a discovery, if not with a little concern. And you’re probably still asleep. “I lost the baby’s head, Dean.” You breathe long and deep through your nose, talking with your eyes closed.

“What?” Dean reaches over for the light and sits up to check Emmie is where you left her. “She’s in her crib Babe. Go back to sleep.“

“You got the baby?” you mumble, stroking your arm as though she’s upon it.

“Yeah, I found her.”

“You got her head?” you slur, putting your hand where it normally is inside your elbow.

“Go back to sleep,” Dean giggles. “It’s okay.”

“She needs her head.”

“I know, it’s there.” Dean grins at you, all mussy and confused, and shuffles himself over to lay beside you so your poor muscles can feel something other than the memory of holding the baby. “I’m on it. Sleep.” He wraps his arms all the way around you and tucks himself into it. He can see his beautiful baby girl - just the line of her brow and cheek - and her mother up against him. Everything he’s ever dreamed of.

Dean knew you could do hard work. He’d seen you fight, seen you withstand, seen you tunnel your soul into the earth so you could hold your ground and _persist_. But this is a whole other level of hard. It’s relentless and it spends every aspect of you, and you _give_. He watched your body grow a person and felt inadequate and peripheral every week. He wasn’t even sure you needed him for the labour, even though you said you did. Now, all he can do is take Emmie whenever he can - comfort her, change her, chat with her - and sustain you. He lives off his gratitude and love, feeling a glutton every day, and he feeds it straight to you.


	15. Rub Mah Belleh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mizzamericnpie asked: I don’t know if you’re still doing mini drabbles, but could you write one about the reader relaxing on the couch and Dean wanting to lay down with her while she rubs his back? Maybe he’s being a big baby because he’s tired. If you have the time I appreciate it 🤗  
> ...  
> I am still doing them. There aren’t too many left and I’m getting a bit sad but it’s not like I don’t have stuff waiting! This’ll prolly be real short but I hope you don’t mind - thanks Alyssa! It’s aaaaall lowkey fluff.

The movie’s half way through and you’re thinking you should change position, but it’s cosy like this, your knees up and leaning against the low arm rest. Your joins are starting to feel creaky, though, even while they’re still.

Through the door sighs Dean, shuffling like his socks are full of stones heavy and he stares at the couch with a St Bernard face.

“You want me to move?”

“No,” he breathes, but it’s more like _Naoh_. “I’ll be okay.” He gets in front of his side and groans as he bends, catching himself in the deep seat, deflating entirely as it all gives beneath him. “Whatcha watchin’?”

“Zootopia,” you report. “It’s a bit boring.”

“Mmm,” he slumps.

“You okay?”

“Had to dig a grave by myself. My back hurts.” He’s gonna go eat some worms.

“You want me to rub it?”

“Really?” He smiles a bit, then squints, “You sure?”

“Yeah, you’ve earned it,” you shrug and wave him over.

Suddenly his back doesn’t seem so hurt as he moves over and then, to your surprise, drapes himself over your legs, lays himself right upon the side of your left leg flush, against his belly, so he can rest his head on his crossed arms. He’s _heavy_ and you think maybe you’ll be leaving your legs here when you turn in for the night. _Christ_.

Regardless, you press your palm against his sacrum and rub back and forth. Dean groans, heavily, and you roll your eyes at his drama. Slowly and steadily your push warm weight across the muscles around his waist, over the hip bones and along the hills by his spine. Dutifully he grunts and moans, sighing “Yeah, that” and “Oh, fuck,” through his teeth and drool. When you think you can’t feel your feet any more you tap his shoulder saying “Let me get more comfortable.” He pushes himself up so you can put your feet on the ground.

When he lays down again, his nearest arm is long, folded along the arm rest, his arm pit up against your left hip now, and his temple is upon your right knee. He lets his other arm hang, knuckles slack on the floor.

Across his shoulders your rub, giving the fleshy parts big fat pinches, knuckling where you know it get sore and leaning on the knots between his shoulder blades. “Uuuhfuuuuck,” he slurs, his lips squished against your leg. “Uh, _ah!_ Uhmuhgod. Uh you’re awful. Never stop. How do you find these knotssssssshit!” 

“Uh, ‘cause you have a back of macramé?”

He sucks on his spit and closes his eyes and then, after you’ve given his neck a good massage, he turns his head so you can work the muscles the other way, and you feel his hand wrap around your ankle.

After a while, you’ve done everything twice, and it’s gotten well beyond his fair share of indulgence. You drag your fingertips down his hair a few times and then pat his shoulder a few times to finish.

Long enough passes that you suspect he’s fallen asleep, up until you see his eyes open. He can see your side, pretty much, past his arm, and he looks at the view and thinks.

Then, in a move that has you lifting your arms up as though you’ve walked into cold water, Dean turns himself towards you. He wraps the closer arm around your waist, pushes the other one around too, though it’s mostly resting on the arm rest, and nuzzles his face into your belly. And there he stays, breathing you in with a face full of stretch cotton and pudge.

Holy shit. “You right there?” You try to sound gentle, indifferent even, but all he’d have to do is lift your shirt and his lips would be on you. So, _holy shit_.

“Just…” He doesn’t open his eyes, just talks quietly. “Can we just pretend we’ve done this before?”

“…Uh, sure. I guess… If you promise we can do it again.”

Dean’s smile is quick and crinkled. “Yes,” he nods, rubbing in to you. 

Some time passes and he gets more comfortable, still turned toward you with his head on your thigh, leaning into the crook of your hip, but his arms are cross before his chest. By the need of the movie he’s rolled onto his back and holding your hand on his chest.

You’re still deciding how to wake him when Sam arrives, during the credits. “Oh great,” he says, flopping his hands on his thighs. 

“What’s wrong?” you whisper. “You look a bit rough.”

“Yeah that’s because I was left to dig a damn grave on my own while my asshole brother comes home for a shower and a damn couch cuddle.”

Come again? “What was Dean doing?” you hush.

“He said the car needed work!” Sam’s not trying to stay quiet. “My ass.” He huffs out of the room and you wait for Dean to open his eyes, since his breathing has lost that gentle snore it had a few minutes ago, but he doesn’t.

In your best stage whisper, you say to yourself “Maybe I won’t tell Dean that I know he lied to his brother just to get in my lap.” Dean smiles, and you pretend to wonder aloud some more. “Maybe I can use that against him later.” His teeth begin to show, too. “I wonder what I could get from Dean just to keep that from Sam… hmmm,” you say thoughtfully.

This time Dean does look up at you, cheeky and sparkling. “Just about anything, I bet.”


	16. I just ironed these pants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Congrats on the milestone!! I love your Sam. Maybe something fun and smutty and Sam-y with “I just ironed these pants!” ??
> 
> Wish granted Nonny! Thank you! Smut ahoy.

“I just ironed these pants!” Sam standing in the garage doorway, fully Fedded and ready to go.

“You look like you’re about to start a song.” Adorable goof.

Sam smiles, and you smile, and then you smile properly because you’re pretty much an item now; you don’t need to stick to the ‘demure’ or ‘pretty’ smiles you used to fish with. You can just be happy, and every time you let it go he smiles every harder, gummy and timeless. “Okay, let’s go.”

“No- well,” he looks down, his hands still framing his pockets because, you know, _careful_. “Let’em cool down first.”

You smother a giggle. “Are they hot Sam? You got some hot pants on?”

Sam sags and huffs, not meaning to joke, and moves up the steps to the car. “No, I just don’t want to set a new batch of wrinkles in them.”

“Are they hot because you just ironed them?” you ask, tugging on his jacket lapel. “Or because you’re the one who’s in them?”

He smirks down at you, resisting the flirt because Dean’s probably going to turn up soon. “I’m _trying_ to present as a professional.“

“Uh huh.” But you press yourself up against him and slide your hands around his firm waist, and his smirk never sticks around for that. “A professional what?” A quick smack on his ass makes him jolt and chew his dimples away. “Mmm, hot pants!”

Poor Sam. He’s so responsive. His cock is like a thermometer of thought. It wasn’t even the slightest of glances at the door and you can feel him start to chub. Then he’s pretending to not look around the garage for a nook, some dark corner, and he’s half mast already.

“Getting hotter Sam.”

Very soon, you think, Sam’s going to let go of the tether he’s kept on himself. Every time you get intimate, he makes love to you - attentively, carefully, intensely and passionately - but there’s always a moment where his gaze is so scorching you’re sure there’s something else he’s thinking of. Something smouldering and fast, something you won’t be able to keep up with, and you’re starting to lean for it. You’re dying for him to make a mess of you.

“You’re a bad influence, you know that?” Sam tucks a little smile and rubs his palms up and down your shoulders. He kisses your cheek and buries himself in your neck for a polite hug. Seems now is not the time.

Okay then, maybe another day. With your arms across his shoulders, you fiddle with his hair and say “You’re telling me. I’ve even got a condom in my pocket.”

Sam freezes, a second’s thought, then his arm tighten around your waist, swinging you with him when he turns towards the back of the room. “You shoulda started with that,” he mutters. You cling blindly, trying not to laugh, and watch the view disappear behind a vintage soft-top buggy. Sam walks you straight into the corner of the room, cold concrete against your shoulder and back and he shuffles his hold around so he can support your ass and keep you close.

When he leans back, looking down at your legs wrapped around his waist, your corporate skirt just a bunched up waistband now, you go straight for his belt buckle and fly and he moves to give you the space. “Dean’ll be ages,” you assure him. “Fixing his hair.”

There’s that gaze, hot enough to make your chest radiate, your neck blush. Sam’s chest fills and gives, his tongue waiting for you behind his teeth while he watches you push things aside and guide his cock free. “One sec,” he says, then drops to one knee, taking your weight in your sitting bones and holding your hips between him and the wall like a big bowl of punch. You curse a little, grab onto the backwall for support, and hear him say, “Lil’ help?”

Your panties are in the way. With four fingers you yank them aside and watch, _watch_ Sam open his mouth and taste you. You feel his teeth against the lips, his tongue licking broad and flat against your core, and again, with a great sucking kiss to your clit before he stands tall and presses the head of his cock to the dint of you.

It’s not slow - not with your weight behind it - but it’s so god-damned deliciously mean, the way his thickness pushes, demands space inside you, forcing flesh aside. You curl your back and grab onto his upper arms.

“Can you be quiet?” he puffs.

“Yeah?”

He laughs a little and you ask “Have I not been quiet?”

“No,” he leans in and kisses you, shifting his hold while you gasp at how it feels to be jostled around. ‘Not at all.” 

You’re all sandwiched against the wall now, your pussy acutely aware of what’s there while it’s still easing around the size.

“I won’t have enough hands for you.” He means he can’t get at our clit, which he usually does when he gets close to coming.

“Why not?”

With licked lips and thirsty swallow, carefully, neatly, Sam cups his palm over your mouth, his thumb tucked under your chin, and leans his elbow against the wall. “Okay?”

You can barely move. It’s perfect. “Mm.” You look into his eyes, remembering how you try to describe the colour whenever you get close. There’s no point this time - the colour’s nearly gone. His nose is at his knuckles as his hip pull back and scoop up and a muted, shaky moan, is pushed out of you - “Mm-hmm!”

“Shh,” he says. “No noise Little Miss Bad Influence.” He starts to smirk, a dark, mercurial thing that’s all the sex you ever hoped for. “I just-” oh fuck - “ironed,” - ohJesusthat’sthick - “these,” - helpme - “pants.”

You don’t know how you do it, but you manage to disengaged your voice. Instead your breath is pushed out of you, each time, inch for inch, as Sam fucks into you, over and over. He keeps his head turned, watching your brow curl in pleasure and effort, your pussy buzzing bright, everything open and hoping for every thrust.

Soon it’s Sam’s quiet sounds you’re listening to - earnest grunts and held back moans, a strained “Christ” before he presses his mouth to the meat of your neck, gets his teeth on the skin to help muffle himself. Then he’s thumping hard, hard, hard, shoes skidding on the ground, so you chance gravity, let go of his arm and reach down yourself, flicking over your clit a few times to feel yourself pull tight and shudder. Sam gasps and pushes his mouth against your neck flush, back to the incisors, and moans each breath as he comes with his last thrusts.

He takes his hand from your face, leans against the wall and you think to hold still and listen… it’s quiet. Or quiet again at least.

Carefully Sam withdraws and you unfold your legs, using the wall for help. He’s quicker than ever to remove the condom and toss it in the bin by the workbench. “You okay?”

You rub your palms over your hip joints, shimmying your skirt back in place. “Mm-hmm. Very.”

He checks around the lap of his pants as he set it all in order, and soon you’re both feeling presentable, if not slightly Friday After Work ish.

You’re both in the car, acting Normal, when Dean arrives and get behind the wheel.

“You two all done then?” Dean peers over his shoulder at you. “Gonna last till we get back?”

Both of you stare at Dean. Not so quiet at all then. 

Sam’s the one who talks: “Uh, yep.”

“Good.” Dean starts the car, settling in. “Good thing y’didn’t bother pressing your pants.”


	17. Aurora Borealis, Unicorn, Yellowstone NP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> writingthingsisdifficult asked: Congratulations!!! I can't believe you don't have at least 4 million followers (you should). And I wanna join in the celebration, but I'm notoriously bad at coming up with interesting stuff, so feel free to ignore. Anyway, three things: Aurora Borealis, unicorn, Yellowstone National Park. Again: Congratulations!
> 
> Thank you lovely. I can’t tell you how grateful I ma that you’re someone who follows me. You’re such a gift and really mu tumblr life wouldn’t be anywhere near as nice without you. You seriously contribute to it being worthwhile.

Well, this is nice.

The rakshasa had been easy to find and quick to kill. You’d put aside the whole weekend to get the job done and not only that, the body was disposed of in one night, thanks to your remote campside fire. High fives and beer all round.

Then Sam, the next morning, had stood there with his thumbs under his shoulder straps, in his new tan hiking books, and said “So, uh, we got a whole day left.” You’d peered at him and Dean peered even harder. “Maybe we could check out some of the park some more?” Sam shrugged, his hopeful little dimples pretending he could take or leave it.

“Sure thing,” you’d said, with no intention of leaving your log.

“Right behind you,” Dean nodded, finger slackly pointing at the path. _Go gettem’ champ_.

“Yeah, maybe go ahead and find us a spot?” you added.

Sam had breathed deep, filled his grin from the bottom up and marched outta there to the beat of his massive, nature loving heart.

You mumbled quietly to Dean, “Couldn’t bear to tell the poor boy no. You see that face?”

“God no,” Dean muttered back. “He so… _healthy_.”

“Mm. Ugh, Jesus I’m not even woke,” you’d grumbled. “Spoon me something.”

“I have hair of the dog… and crackers.”

“Sounds fancy.” The two of you sat side by side against the log and stared at the tent. “Okay, for shots. I’ll bet you that we break something packing up, bleed something on the way, and lose something before tomorrow.”

“That’s just miserable, Y/N!” Dean whined. “Why are you wishing the worst on us?!”

You’d tipped the empty pack of crackers upside down for emphasis. “Because that hunt was too easy and I think Sam took all the luck with him!” You gesture down the path he went. “There’ll be a frikken squirrel on his shoulder when we get there, you watch.”

There was no squirrel, but Sam was very well established by the time you two turned up, cursing and groaning about backs and what-all. The fire was set, and darkness was looming. You and Dean took turns _uh-huh_ ing as Sam described the surrounds while you set up the tent, and now you’re laying on another, better, bigger log, staring up at Mount Haynes with the embers glowing near your feet. At least that’s where you were pointed - it was a new moon tonight.

“Hey,” Dean elbows you, “we lost the can opener, and I cut my arm. Two outta-”

“Snapped a tent pole.”

“Seriously? I thought you just put it up crooked.” Dean twists around to look at the tent. It does look rather Dali-esque.

“Guys, look at that!” Sam points up into the sky and, to the soundtrack of breathy sighs and explications, the Aurora Borealis begins to ripple across the sky. “You know you can predict them - an hour, maybe a few days - in advance. It’s when electrons collide with the atmosphere…”

As Sam explains the magical phenomenon occurring above, you turn and scowl at him - schooling y’all on the Aurora! - but Dean sitting, between you, shakes his head and frowns _Just leave it_. You swallow it down and try to block out Sam’s lesson…

When it’s quiet again, you can’t help but sigh “So gorgeous. Space is right there huh.”

The brothers hum in reply. “Looks like it’s coming from the mountain,” Dean comments.

“Yeah, really does,” says Sam.

And then, before your very eyes (what you hope are the only human eyes), the shimmering hues ebb back and forth, then jitter sideways and bounce across the sky. Which is odd. Actually, when you look at it with more thought, it’s all a bit… low. 

Iridescent hues and sharper beams of white seem to emanate from the mountain peak, and then they begin to converge on a point of focus just beyond the crests. All of you slowly lean forward to watch what’s happening. Sam blindly reaches for his binoculars and, just after he puts them to his eyes, you see the glorious, brilliant sight of a unicorn - a _unicorn!_ \- rearing up upon the mountain’s peak.

Sam adjusts the sight on the binoculars, breathing, “That’s a fucking unicorn.”

“You predict that Sam?” You don’t even know how Dean managed to speak with such a slack jaw.

The unicorn shakes out it’s mane, dancing on the spot a little, then turns and dashes out of sight, taking it’s magical rainbow with it. A full minute goes by before anyone even moves.

You take a big sip of your shot and Dean does the same, sharing a wide-eyed moment with you seeing as Sam’s still binoculared to the mountain. “Welp,” you sigh, “The more you know.”


	18. What the hell is this doing under your bed?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dreamsfromthebunker asked: Congratulations, Ali 😊 Okay, I do have a prompt for you... Sam: "What the hell is this doing under your bed?!"
> 
> Oh. You, you.. heathen. I know exactly what you expect me to “put under the bed’. That’s just a tacky, base, stereotypical- it’s just a little predictable okay? And I won’t do it! I won’t! Shan’t! …okay butlet’stoitanyway. Teehee!

“What the hell is this doing under your bed?!”

“HO! Holy _shit!”_ Thank fuck you’d just swallowed your coffee. Thank God you were already putting it down because you can’t… _look-_ You can’t even look at Sam- “ _Sam?!_ What the fucking?! _Hell?!”_ You’re weren’t cowering, as such, but you were curled away and blinking as though Sam was pointing a great big fucking flashlight at you, and not a great big fucking dildo.

A way… way bigger dildo than you remembered too. Christ. Is it that it’s out of context? Do dildos look bigger in non-bedrooms?

“How long have you had this?” he asks. He can’t help but gesture, but at least he loosens his grip a little. (It has a very authentic waggle.) It’s still hard for you to not watch the terribly unreal penis that’s right beside an other-kind-of-unreal penis, albeit in its pants. It’s a little meta.

“I dunno,” you whine, “a _while?_ ”

“A while?”

You shrug, still peering at the damn thing, wishing to fuck he’d just get it out of sight.

“Before or after we started dating?”

“Well- wait, why would that matter?”

“I just wanna know!” Oh, that shrug was _loaded_.

You blink, and think, and tilt your head up at him. Suddenly the dildo isn’t quite so distracting because Sam- your Sam? You know, your lovely sweet guy who took 6 months to stutter his way into a date _suggestion,_ who almost comatosed you with his careful, hesitant pace of moving forward because he just wanted to be sure, to just make sure you were ready, to just, just, in case you were in _any_ way- just say the word,- _seriously,_ you were beginning to think he regretted ever starting anything. So you got yourself a dildo ‘cause you were _parched_.

And you know what? It was literally the next day the damn broke. You pinned him down and told him in no uncertain terms - in rather rude terms, frankly - that you were quite sure that you were serious about Sam and sure about the future of your relationship and you were really quite _very sure_ that it should include sex as soon as possible and you kissed him hard enough to make his eyebrows curse. You _forgot_ you’d bought the dildo. You forgot all sorts of shit. Sam fucked it aaaaaall away.

But you know, right now, you should say _Before_.

So you stand and look at him, and Sam blinks some, shifting his weight and feeling a little less confident about his position.

“I bought the dildo,” you tell him, “ _after_ we started dating, but _before_ we started sleeping together.”

Sam blinks a little more, tilting his chin defiantly… “Okay then. That’s all I wanted to know.”

“All right then,” you nod, and he nods back cordially, if not a bit hesitant. “You gonna go put it back?” you ask.

Sam looks to the side and swallows a quickly - he knows what’s coming.

“Maybe see if you can find what you were _really_ looking for?”

Sam looks down, loses a second at the sight of not-his-dick still in his hand, and clears his throat. “I uh. You’re probably wondering why…” He’s got this. Just give him a minute. “Why I was looking under your bed.”

“Yes.”

“Honestly, for real,” he pats the air, for the _honesty,_ “I left my shoes in there and they got kicked under the bed far enough for me to have to get on the floor and pull them out.”

So he took it out of the box right there and then and brought it to you for a chat. All that packaging, all that curiosity… it can’t be all theoretical. Sam looks down a the veiny thing again and a smirky little huff flits over his face, then he remembers why he’s there, pulling his expression serious for a moment.

“You think you got enough balls to manage two dicks, Sam?”

“Wa- I-” His eyes flare at that and he looks down at it again, glaring in confusion. “I _guess_ but shouldn’t we- Aren’t we meant to use it on you first?”

Oh Sam. Oh baby. 


End file.
